V 


SONNETS 
FROM  THE  CRIME  J 

By  ADAM  MICKIEWICZ 


TRANSLATED  BY 
EDNA  WORTHLET  UNDERWOOD 


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•«*£**Mtr*** *■»■»-!» •♦•##♦*<#»***»<  *»»•#*#•••  ##*«*•#### 


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SONNETS  FROM  THE  CRIMEA 


Sonnets  from  the  Crimea 

By  Adam  Mickiewicz 

Translated  by 
Edna  Worthley  Underwood 


M  CM  XVI 1 

Paul  Rider  and  Company ,  Publisher 

San  Francisco 


Copyright,  igrj,  by 

Paul  Elder  and  Company 

San  Francisco 


tf£ 


CONTENTS 

Adam  Mickiewicz         .                .          .          .          .                            VII 

A  biographical  sketch  by  Edna  Worthley  Underwood 

The  Ackerman  Stepj>e        .... 

Page 
3 

Becalmed         ...... 

5 

Mountains  from  the  Keslov  Steppe 

7 

Baktschi  Serai           ..... 

9 

Baktschi  Serai  by  Night 

• 

ii 

The  Grave  of  Countess  Potocka 

■ 

13 

The  Graves  of  the  Harem    . 

• 

15 

Baydary 

• 

J7 

Alushta  by  Day 

• 

19 

Alushta  by  Night 

• 

21 

Tschatir  Dagh  (Mirza) 

• 

23 

Tschatir  Dagh  {The  Pilgrim) 

25 

The  Pass  Across  the  Abyss  in  the  Tschufut-Kalc 

27 

{Mirza)            ...... 

29 

The  Ruins  of  Balaclava      .... 

31 

On  Juda's  Cliff         ..... 

33 

III 

8i 


ADAM  MICKIEWICZ 

A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


ADAM  MICKIEWICZ 

{1798-1855) 

7 ?HE  last  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  an  important 
period  for  Russia  and  Poland,  not  only  politically, 
but  in  letters  and  art.  It  marked  the  birth  of  statesmen, 
patriots,  poets  and  writers.  It  was  into  a  Poland  of  great 
names  and  greater  activities  that  Adam  Mickiewicz  was 
born  in  1798,  as  son  of  an  impoverished  family  of  the  old 
nobility.  Three  years  before,  the  third  and  last  partition  of 
his  native  land  had  taken  place,  and  the  signed  documents 
had  been  hastened  to  Petersburg  to  make  more  triumphant 
the  birthday  of  the  Great  Catherine. 

Just  a  few  years  before  this  {1792),  Kosciusko  had  cour- 
ageously led  his  forty-five  thousand  valiant  Poles  in  their 
brave  defiance  of  an  overwhelming  number  of  Cossacks 
and  Russians.  History  had  recorded  the  bloody  Turkish 
wars,  the  Pugatshev  rebellion,  the  uprising  of  the  Zaporo- 
gian  Cossacks  and  the  Polish  confederations.  And  with  the 
nineteenth  century  came  the  Napoleonic  wars  with  the 
dramatic  entry  of  Napoleon  into  Russia,  and  a  new  and 
different  mental  life  began  to  dawn  over  Europe. 

Mickiewicz  was  born  in  Novogrodek  in  Lithuania.   This 


vu 


ADAM  MICKIEIVICZ 

was  the  birthplace  of  Count  Henry  Rzewuski,  who  wrote 
the  delightful  memories  of  the  Polish  eighteenth  century , 
under  the  title  of11  'The  Memories  of  Pan  Severin  Soplica,"* 
and  who  declared  he  considered  it  an  honor  to  be  born  a 
"  schlazig"  {noble)  of  Lithuania,  and  of  Novogrodek.  He 
went  to  a  government  school  in  Minsk,  and  later  attended 
the  University  of  Vilna,  which  city  in  his  day  was  a  place 
of  Jesuit  faith,  gloomy  convents  and  echoing  bells.  All 
about  him  epoch-making  events  for  Slav  lands  were  taking 
place.  It  was  a  resounding,  inspired  age  for  his  race,  and 
he  grew  up  to  take  a  fitting  place  in  that  age  and  to  be 
called  "the  immortal  hero  of  Polish  poetry."  Poland  just 
then  was  the  battle-ground  not  only  for  the  armies  of 
Europe,  but  for  the  diplomats.  It  was  a  place  for  states- 
men to  win  their  spurs.  If  accredited  to  Petersburg  or 
Warsaw,  and  successful,  they  were  believed  to  be  equal  to 
any  diplomatic  emergency.  Eloquence,  inspiration,  and 
patriotic  fervor  must  have  cradled  his  childhood. 

At  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Mickiewicz,  Russia  was 
bringing  to  a  close  a  prodigious  period  of  development  i?i 
almost  every  field  of  human  activity.     It  was  really  the 

*Tbe  full  title  of  the  book  is:     Memories  of  Pan  Severin    Soplica,  Cupbearer 
of  Parnaii,  by  Count  Henry  Rzewuski. 

VIII 


A  BIOGRAPHIC  J  I.  SKETCH 


birth-throe  of  a  nation  that  was  to  move  powerfully,  and  to 
dominate — -partially — the  new  age.  And  the  splendid  and 
never  again  to  be  equalled  pageant  of  the  life  of  Catherine 
the  Great,  with  its  wild  dreams  of  world  dominance  and  of 
the  glorious  revival  of  perished  Greece,  had  just  been  un- 
rolled for  the  amazement  of  Europe.  What  dramatic  and 
enchanting  memories  the  names  of  her  followers  call  up: 
the  Orlows,  Potemkin,  Panin,  Poniatowski,  Bestushew- 
Rjumin,  Princess  Daschkov,  Razumowski. 

In  France,  too,  the  same  preceding  period  had  been  bril- 
liant. It  had  been  theFrance  of  Voltaire,  the  Encyclopedists, 
and  a  most  resplendent  and  luxurious  monarch.  Eng- 
land had  known  her  greatest  orators  and  prime  ministers. 
It  had  been  the  Prussia  of  Frederick  the  Great;  the  Dresden 
of  August  the  Strong;  the  Austria  of  Joseph  the  Second. 

A  little  later — during  Mickiewicz's  own  youth — Goethe 
was  at  the  height  of  his  power  and  the  intellectual  dictator 
of  Europe.  Under  his  direction  and  encouragement  the 
treasures  of  oriental  literature  were  being  translated  and 
made  known  to  the  West.  This  is  merely  a  hasty  glimpse  of 
the  "  mise-en-scene"  that  preceded  the  debut  in  life  of  the 
most  renowned  of  Polish  poets.  The  old  traditions  of  abso- 
lute and  God-created  monarchs  and  princely  times  were 


IX 


ADAM  MICKIEWICZ 

coming  to  an  end,  and  that  democratic  modern  world, 
where  everything  was  to  change,  was  close  at  hand,  just 
over  the  crest,  indeed,  of  this  new  century  into  which  Fate 
was  ushering  him.  He  was  to  see  the  last  of  blind  power 
and  royal  prerogative,  and  the  first  dawn  of  a  modern 
spirit  which  in  time  would  sweep  away  forever,  the  old. 
It  was  an  uncertain,  difficult  transition  period,  without 
standards  and  without  measurements. 

As  we  take  a  fleeting,  bird's-eye  view  of  the  stirring  times 
in  which  his  days  were  spent,  his  travels,  his  army  life, 
his  periods  of  professorship,  we  can  not  help  but  wonder  at 
the  amount  of  writing  Mickiewicz  did.  And  his  life  was 
not  a  long  one;  it  did  not  reach  to  sixty  years.  But  during 
the  working  years  allotted  him,  before  a  mystical  melan- 
choly— which  was  threatening  to  degenerate  into  madness- 
had  impaired  his  faculties,  his  mind  was  unusually  bril- 
liant, creative  and  marvelously  disciplined.  It  obeyed  at 
will.  At  one  time  he  was  professor  of  Latin  in  Lausanne; 
at  another  time  he  held  the  chair  of  Slavic  languages  in 
Paris.  He  taught  Polish  and  Latin  in  Kovno.  He  trav- 
eled extensively  in  Italy  in  the  interest  of  the  Polish  revolu- 
tion. His  mind  was  many-sided  and  capable  of  various 
activities.       He    devoted   considerable    time    to  advanced 


x 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

mathematics  and  philosophy.  He  made  scientific  investi- 
gations in  Vilna  under  Laiewel.  At  one  time  and  another 
he  lived  in  various  large  cities  of  Europe.  In  Germany 
he  met  and  became  friendly  with  Goethe.  In  Switzer- 
land he  met  Krasinski.  In  1833  he  married  Celina 
Szymanovska.  Her  mother  was  the  famous  Slav  beauty 
and  musician  who  had  so  delighted  Goethe  in  her  youth. 

Among  writers  of  Russia  and  Poland  whose  life  period 
somewhat  coincided  with  that  of  Mickiewicz  s  are:  Kor- 
zenowski  {bom  in  1797) ,  the  novelist  {a  brother  of  Adam 
Mickiewicz  was  fellow-teacher  with  Korzenowski  at  Char- 
kov);  Danilewski  {1829),  likewise  a  novelist — it  was  he 
who  translated  The  Crimean  Sonnets  into  Russian;  Malz- 
weski,  Polish  patriot  and  poet,  whose  "Maria" — perhaps 
the  ?nost  popular  poetic  story  in  Poland — appeared  at 
almost  the  same  time  as  The  Crimean  Sonnets;  Zaleski 
{1802),  Slowacki  (1809),  Krasinski  (18/2),  the  three 
greatest  poets  of  Poland  excepting  only  Mickiewicz  him- 
self; the  Polish  critic,  Brodzinski. 

In  Russia,  the  golden  age  of  literature  almost  covered 
the  same  period  as  Mickiewicz  s  own  life — Puschkin, 
Lermontov,  Schukowski,  Gogol,  to  mention  only  some  of 
the  most  important  names. 


XI 


ADAM  MICKIEWICZ 

In  the  eighteen-thirties  we  find  Mickiewicz  in  Paris, 
which  happened  to  be  filled  just  then  with  a  crowd  of  bril- 
liant Slavic  exiles.  Here  he  became  the  friend  of  Chopin ,  and 
one  of  Chopin  s  most  talented  pupils — a  young  Polish  girl 
— made  the  first  translation  of  the  Sonnets  into  French. 
It  was  a  wonderful  and  brilliant  Paris  which  Mickiewicz 
entered.  'This  was  the  time  when  the  city  was  first  called 
"the  stepmother  of  Genius."  Heine  was  here  in  exile,  and 
Borne.  It  knew  the  personal  fascination  and  the  denuncia- 
tive writings  of  Ferdinand  la  Salle.  It  was  the  day,  too,  of 
Eugene  Sue,  Berlioz,  George  Sand,  de  Musset,  Dumas, 
Gautier,  the  Goncourt  Brothers,  Gavarni,  Sainte  Beuve, 
Liszt,  Felix  Mendelssohn,  Ary  Scheffer,  Delacroiz,  Horace 
Vernet — to  mention  only  a  few  great  names  at  random. 
Julius  Slowacki,  Count  Krasinski  and  Adam  Mickie- 
wicz were  all  here  editing  their  poetry  in  the  midst  of  this 
brilliant  life  in  the  inspiring  city  by  the  Seine.  This 
period  in  Paris  signs  perhaps  the  high-water  mark  of  the 
creative  genius  of  Mickiewicz.  He  had  already  written  the 
Ballads  and  Romances,  the  third  part  of  Dziady,  Pan 
Tadeuz. 

The  Crimean  Sequence  belongs  to  the  period  of  Mickie- 
wicz s  youth,  the  Vilna  period.   He  joined  a  society  at  this 

XII 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

time  which  was  looked  upon  with  disfavor  by  the  Govern- 
ment. At  lengthy  because  of  his  continued  participation  in 
it)  he  was  exiled  to  southern  Russia.  On  that  trip,  while  he 
was  going  toward  Odessa,  he  began  the  Crimean  Sonnets. 
Their  success  was  quick  and  astonishing.  They  were 
translated  into  every  language  of  Europe.  Although  the  , 
form  is  the  traditional  and  classic  sonnet  form,  he  makes 
use  of  it  in  a  slightly  different  manner,  not  altogether  as  an 
exposition  of  the  sentiments  of  the  soul,  and  the  convictions 
and  emotions  of  the  mind,  but  as  an  instrument  with 
which  to  sketch  what  he  saw  upon  this  eventful  journey . 
He  used  the  sonnet  form  at  that  period  just  as  Verhaeren 
used  it  in  " Les  Flamandes,"  to  show  us  Flanders,  and  as 
Albert  Samain  in  "  Le  Chariot  d'Or,"  to  picture  the  gar- 
dens of  Versailles.  This  is  worthy  of  note.  And  this  we 
must  remember  was  before  1826.  In  the  poetical  works  of 
Mickiewicz  there  was  always  traceable  an  inclination  to 
break  tradition  and  to  search  for  new  and  untried  possi- 
bilities. 

On  this  exile  in  Russia  he  learned  to  know  Puschkin, 
then  a  young  man  like  himself.  Puschkin  has  written  a 
verse  letter  to  him  which  we  transcribe  in  free  prose.  "  He 
lived  among  us  for  a  while — a  people  strange  to  him.     And 

XIII 


ADAM  MICKIEWICZ 


yet  his  mind  cherished  no  hatred  and  no  longing  for  re- 
venge. Generous,  kind  of  heart,  noble-minded,  he  joined 
our  evening  circles,  and  we  loved  him.  We  exchanged  our 
dreams,  our  plans — our  poems.  God  gave  him  genius  and 
inspiration.  He  stood  always  on  the  heights  and  looked 
down  on  life.  We  talked  of  history  and  of  nations.  He 
declared  a  time  would  come  when  races  would  forget  all 
evil  things — like  war,  rebellion — and  dwell  together  peace- 
ably in  one  great  family.  We  listened  to  him  eagerly  for  he 
had  the  gift  of  speech.  After  a  while  he  went  away  and  we 
gave  our  blessing  to  him.  Then  we  learned  our  guest — 
spurred  on  by  his  revengeful  race — had  become  our  enemy. 
To  please  that  bitter  race  of  his  he  filled  his  songs  with 
hatred.  Of  our  beloved  friend  there  came  to  us  only  re- 
venge and  angry  thoughts.  God  grant  that  peace  may  come 
again  to  his  embittered  heart!" 

Puschkin  himself  wrote  eloquently  of  these  same  Cri- 
mean scenes  that  Mickiewicz  shows  us.  He,  too,  was  in- 
spired by  the  old  capital  city  of  the  Tartar  rulers.  We 
recall  his  "Fountain  of  Baktschi  Serai."  And  he,  too, 
brings  before  our  eyes  again  that  gigantic  mountain  world 
of  southern  Russia  in  "  The  Prisoner  of  the  Caucasus?' 

The  fame  of  The  Crimean  Sonnets  was  so  great  that 


Ml 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

Mickiewicz  was  offered  a  government  position  which  at- 
tached him  to  the  person  of  the  powerful  Prince  Galitzin, 
in  Moscow.  It  was  in  Rome,  and  singularly  enough  it  was 
when  he  wrote  the  "Ode  to  Youth"  that  he  began  to  devote 
himself  to  mystical  studies  which  had  such  an  injurious 
effect  upon  his  mind.  For  some  time  after  he  had  lost  his 
fluent  power  as  a  poet,  he  retained  his  conversational  gifts 
which  were  remarkable  and  brought  him  almost  as  much 
fame  as  his  poetry.  His  life  ended  in  a  period  as  dramatic 
as  that  in  which  it  began.  He  entered  the  Turkish  wars  in 
1855  and  died  in  Stamboul  in  that  same  year.  It  is  some- 
what peculiar  and  at  the  same  time  no  little  to  his  credit 
that  he  should  have  chosen  the  sonnet  as  the  instrument  of 
his  quick  sketching  of  Crimea  on  the  trip  of  exile,  because 
the  sonnet  has  never  been  a  frequently  chosen  means  of  ex- 
pression of  the  Slav  races,  despite  the  numerous  sonnets 
written  later  by  Vrchlicky,  Preseren  and  others.  The  son- 
net has  belonged  more  to  the  Latin  races,  and  to  the  English 
race.  The  Crimean  Sonnets,  however,  rank  among  the 
famous  sequences. 

Edna  Worthley  Underwood. 


xv 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  CRIMEA 


THE  ACKERMAN  STEPPE 


Across  sea-meadows  measureless  I  go, 

My  wagon  sinking  under  grass  so  tall 
The  flowery  petals  in  foam  on  me  fall, 

And  blossom-isles  float  by  I  do  not  know. 
No  pathway  can  the  deepening  twilight  show; 

I  seek  the  beckoning  stars  which  sailors  call, 
And  watch  the  clouds.  What  lies  there  brightening  all? 

The  Dneister's,  the  steppe-ocean's  evening  glow! 

The  silence!  I  can  hear  far  flight  of  cranes — 
So  far  the  eyes  of  eagle  could  not  reach — 

And  bees  and  blossoms  speaking  each  to  each; 
The  serpent  slipping  adown  grassy  lanes; 

From  my  far  home  if  word  could  come  to  me! — 
Tet  none  will  come.  On,  o'er  the  meadow-sea! 


BECALMED 

The  flag  is  listless,  limp.  It  dances  not. 

As  deep  the  sea  breathes  from  a  gentle  breast 
As  any  bride  who  dreams  at  love's  behest, 

And  wakes  and  sighs,  then  casts  with  dreams  her  lot. 
Sails  hang  upon  the  masts — useless — -forgot — 

Like  folded  standards  which  the  warriors  wrest 
And  bring  home  broken  from  the  battle's  crest. 

The  sailors  rest  them  in  some  sheltered  spot. 

0  Sea!  within  your  unknown  deeps  concealed, 

When  storms  are  wild,  your  monsters  dream  and  sleep, 

And  all  their  cruelty  for  the  sunlight  keep. 

Thus,  Soul  of  Mine,  in  your  sad  deeps  concealed 

The  monsters  sleep — when  wild  are  storms.  They  start 
From  out  some  blue  sky  s  peace  to  seize  my  heart. 


If 


MOUNTAINS  FROM  THE  KESLOV  STEPPE 

{Pilgrim) 
What  would  Great  Allah  with  the  frozen  sea? 

Would  he  of  icy  clouds  a  throne  carve  bright :, 
Or  would  the  demons  of  the  deepest  night 

A  bar  build  where  the  shining  stars  sweep  free? 
It  gleams  like  pagan  cities  fired,  kings  flee. 

When  Day  was  anciently  destroyed  by  Night 
Did  Allah  amid  chaos  fix  this  light 

To  guide  the  star-worlds  of  eternity? 

(Mirza) 
Up  there  Fve  journeyed  where  the  winter  reigns , 

And  seen  the  rivers  bitten  black  like  lines 
On  Tschatir  Dagh,  where  the  white  cloud  reclines, 

Which  not  the  wildest  eagle's  shadow  stains, 
Where  cradled  under  me  the  thunders  sleep 

And  Allah  and  the  stars  their  watches  keep. 


BJKTSCHI  SERAI 

In  ruin  are  the  spacious,  splendid  halls 

With  frozen  forest  of  white  columns  where 
The  Tartar  Khan  his  palace  buildedfair, 

Where  loneliest  the  shrilling  cricket  calls. 
The  ivy  blackens  over  shining  walls 

Enscribing  in  gigantic  letters  there 
Some  curse  Belshazzar-like:  Beivare!  BewareI- 

Then  black  as  crepe  from  crested  columns  falls. 

Within  the  burnished  banquet  room  there  sings 
The  fountain  of  the  harem  pure  and  clear, 

Just  as  of  old  it  sang  in  twilights  drear. 

But  whither  love  and  fame  speed — -on  what  wings'? 

When  all  things  else  must  perish  these  endure! 
Yet  both  are  gone!  The  fountain  ripples  pure. 


BAKTSCHI  SERAI  BY  NIGHT 

From  out  the  mosques  the  pious,wend  their  way; 

Muezzin  voices  tremble  through  the  night; 
Within  the  sky  the  pallid  King  of  Light 

Wraps  silvered  ermine  round  him  while  he  may, 
And  Heaven  s  harem  greets  its  star  array. 

One  lone  white  cloud  rests  in  the  azure  height- 
A  veiled  court  lady  in  some  sorrow's  plight — 

Whom  cruel  love  and  day  have  cast  away. 

The  mosques  stand  there;  and  here  tall  cypress  trees; 

There — mountains,  towering,  black  as  demons  frown, 
Which  Lucifer  in  rage  from  God  cast  down. 

Like  sword  blades  lightningflickers  over  these, 
And  on  an  Arab  steed  the  wild  Khan  rides 

Who  goes  to  Baktschi  Serai  which  night  hides. 


ii 


THE  GRAVE  OF  COUNTESS  POTOCKA 

In  Spring  of  love  and  life ,  My  Polish  Rose, 

You  faded  and  forgot  the  joy  of  youth; 
Bright  butterfly,  it  brushed  you,  then  left  ruth 

Of  bitter  memory  that  stings  and  glows. 
0  Stars!  that  seek  a  path  my  northland  knows, 

How  dare  you  now  on  Poland  shine  forsooth, 
When  she  who  loved  you  and  lent  you  her  youth 

Sleeps  where  beneath  the  wind  the  long  grass  blows? 

Alone,  My  Polish  Rose,  I  die,  like  you. 

Beside  your  grave  a  while  pray  let  me  rest 
With  other  wanderers  at  some  grief  s  behest. 

The  tongue  of  Poland  by  your  grave  rings  true. 
High-hearted,  now  a  young  boy  past  it  goes, 

Of  you  it  is  he  sings,  My  Polish  Rose. 


13 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  HAREM 

They  sleep  well  here  whom  Allah  loved  and  kept 

And  treasured  in  his  vineyard  fair  and 'fine , 
Most  lustrous  of  the  Orient  pearls  that  shine, 

Which  youth  found  where  the  waves  of  passion  swept. 
Here,  where  in  peace  perpetual  they  have  slept, 

A  turban  beckons  where  the  roses  twine, 
A  banner  flutters  out  in  silken  line, 

And  sometimes  here  a  Giaour  s  name  is  kept. 

Oh!  roses  of  this  paradise  of  old, 

The  eyes  that  loved  not  Allah  saw  you  not, 

Nor  arms  that  prayed  not  eastward  could  enfold! 
But  now  a  Christian  treads  this  hallowed  spot; 

Wise  Allah,  curse  not  him  who  bows  his  head 
Amid  the  marble  shrines  of  Allah's  dead! 


'5 


BATDART 

'Give  wings  unto  the  storm,  and  spurs  to  steed, 

Vd  move  unchained  as  wind  across  the  world, 
Sweep  onward  like  a  torrent  mountain-hurled, 

Nor  sea,  nor  height,  nor  valley  pause  to  heed. 
"The  twilight  spreads  a  dimness  o'er  our  speed, 

And  shows  the  diamond-stars  from  hoofs  up-whirled, 
Since  daylight  now  her  curtained  blue  has  juried, 

And  mystery  and  magic  shadows  breed. 

The  earth  sleeps,  but  not  I — not  I — not  I- 

Who  hasten  to  the  shore  where  waves  are  loud 
And  toward  me  in  the  darkness  whitely  crowd. 

Beneath  them  I  would  still  my  soul's  deep  cry- 
Like  ships  the  whirlpools  seize  to  drag  to  death— 

fd plunge  within  the  silence,  sans  thought,  breath. 


*7 


ALUSHTA  BY  DAY 

The  mighty  mountain  flings  its  mist-veil  down; 

With  little  flowers  the  gracious  fields  are  bright ', 
And  from  the  forest  colors  flash  to  sight 

Like  gems  that  drop  from  off  a  Califs  crown. 
Upon  the  meadows  settles  shimmering  down 

A  band  of  butterflies  in  rainbow  flight; 
Cicadas  call  and  call  in  day's  delight, 

And  bees  are  dreaming  in  a  blossom's  crown. 

The  waves  beneath  the  cliff  are  thunder-pale, 
Now  upward,  upward  in  their  rage  they  rise 

And  tawny  are  their  crests  as  tigers''  eyes. 
The  sun  is  focused  on  one  white, far  sail 

And  on  blue,  shining  deeps  as  smooth  as  glass 
Wherein  slim  cranes  are  shadowed  as  they  pass. 


'9 


ALUSHTA  BY  NIGHT 

The  drooping^  weary  day  night  pushed  aside; 

On  Tschatir  Dagh  the  sullen  sun  and  low 
Paints  phantom  purple  upon  ancient  snow; 

While  forest  ways  within ,  the  wanderers  hide. 
Night  veils  the  mountains  and  the  valleys  wide; 

The  thunderous  brooks  are  dream-held \dulled,and slow; 
Beneath  the  blackness  fragrant  flowers  blow 

And  rich  leaf -music  clothes  each  valley  side. 

Almost  my  waking  eyes  are  dream-held  too; 

With  gold  a  meteor  marks  the  deep-domed  sky 
And  fountain-like  the  fiery  sparks  float  by. 

Oh!  Beauty  of  the  Eastern  Night,  you  woo 
My  spirit  like  the  odalisque,  who  held 

Men  captive  till  her  kiss  the  dream  dispelled! 


21 


TSCHATIR  DAGH 

(Mirza) 
The  reverent  Mussulman  bends  low  to  greet 

Tou,  Tschatir  Dagh,  Crimea  s  bright-masted  ship! 
World-altar, — minaret — the  place  where  dip 

Down  stairs  from  golden  Heaven  for  the  feet! 
Tou  guard  the  door  of  God  in  splendor  meet, 

Like  Gabriel  with  holy  sword  on  hip; 
In  bright  mist  mantled  from  the  toe  to  lip, 

Tour  turban  set  with  alien  stars  and  sweet. 

If  winter  rule  the  world,  or  summer  s  sun, 
If  Giaour  rage  about,  or  winds  are  wild, 

Above  them,  Tschatir  Dagh,you,  changeless  one, 
Are  like  to  Allah,  pure  and  undefiled; 

Aloft  you  tower  from  out  the  lowly  sod 
To  give  to  men  again  the  will  of  God. 


23 


TSCHATIR  DAGH 

{The  Pilgrim) 

Below  me  half  a  world  I  see  outspread; 

Above ',  blue  heaven;  around,  peaks  of  snow; 
And  yet  the  happy  pulse  of  life  is  slow, 

I  dream  of  distant  places,  pleasures  dead. 
The  woods  of  Lithuania  I  would  tread 

Where  happy -throated  birds  sing  songs  I  know; 
Above  the  trembling  marshland  I  would  go 

Where  chill-winged  curlews  dip  and  call  o'er  head. 

A  tragic,  lonely  terror  grips  my  heart, 
A  longing  for  some  peaceful,  gentle  place, 

And  memories  of  youthful  love  I  trace. 
Unto  my  childhood  home  I  long  to  start, 

And  yet  if  all  the  leaves  my  name  could  cry 

She  would  not  pause  nor  heed  as  she  passed  by. 


25 


THE  PASS  ACROSS  THE  ABYSS  IN  THE 
TSCHUFUT-KALE 

(Mirza) 
Pray!  Pray!  Let  loose  the  bridle.  Look  not  down! 

The  humble  horse  alone  has  wisdom  here. 
He  knows  where  blackest  the  abysses  leer 

And  where  the  path  in  safety  leads  us  down. 
Pray,  and  look  upward  to  the  mountain's  crown! 

'The  deep  below  is  endless  where  you  peer; 
Stretch  not  the  hand  out  as  you  pass,  for  fear 

The  added  weight  of  that  might  plunge  you  down. 

And  check  your  thoughts'  free  flight,  too,  while  you  go; 

Let  all  of  Fancy's  fluttering  sails  be  furled 
Here  where  Death  watches  o'er  the  riven  world. 

{Pilgrim) 
I  lived  to  cross  the  bridge  of  ancient  snow! 

But  what  I  saw  my  tongue  no  more  can  tell, 
The  angels  only  could  rehearse  that  well. 


-7 


(MIRZA) 

Behold  blue  Heaven  in  that  deep  abyss! 

The  sea  is  that!  Behold  the  long  waves  shine! 
Watch  how  they  rock  that  giant  bird  divine ; 

Whose  swinging  white  wings  wide  horizons  kiss. 
Is  that  an  iceberg  in  the  blue  abyss? 

No,  no — a  cloud!  Watch  how  'tis  veiling  fine 
The  sea,  the  land,  out-blotting  every  line 

To  drown  it  all  in  darkness  soon  I  wis. 

The  lightning  comes  now!  Frightful  is  its  sweep. 

But  softly — softly!  Watch  my  spur — my  whip! 
Til  leap  across  unto  that  chasm  s  lip. 

What  still  and  chilling  sternness  great  cliffs  keep! 
Down  there  light  calls  to  me.  Soon  there  I'll  be. 

Uncanny  is  such  loneliness  to  me. 


29 


THE  RUINS  OF  BALACLAVA 

Oh,  thankless  Crimean  land!  in  ruin  laid 

Are  now  the  castles  that  were  once  your  pride! 
Here  serpents  and  the  owls  from  daylight  hide, 

And  robbers  arm  them  for  the  nightly  raid. 
Upon  the  lettered  marble  boasts  are  made, 

Brave  words  on  battered  arms  in  gold  descried, 
And  broken  splendor  years  have  scattered  wide, 

Beside  the  dead  who  made  them  are  arraved. 

The  Greek  set  shining,  columned  marble  here. 

The  Latin  put  the  Mongol  horde  to  flight, 
And  Mussulmans  prayed  eastward  morn  and  night. 

The  owl  and  vulture  of  dark  wing  and  drear 
Are  fluttering  like  black  banners  overhead 

In  cities  where  the  pest  piles  high  the  dead. 


3i 


ON  JUDA'S  CLIFF 

On  Judas  Cliff  I  love  to  lean  and  look 

On  waves  that  battling  beat  and  break  with  might, 
While  farther  seaward  in  a  bland  delight, 

I  see  them  shining  where  a  rainbow  shook. 
On  Juda  s  Cliff  I  love  to  lean  and  look 

On  waves  that  like  sea-armies  swing  to  sight, 
To  send  upon  the  shore  their  billows  white, 

And,  ebbing,  to  leave  pearls  in  every  nook. 

Thus,  Poet,  in  your  youth  when  storms  are  wild 
And  passions  break  upon  the  heart  and  brain, 

To  leave  their  ruin  there — shipwreck  and  waste — 
Pick  up  your  lute!  Upon  it  undefiled 

You  11  find  song-pearls  that  your  heart-deeps  retain, 
The  crown  the  years  have  brought  you,  white  and  chaste. 


33 


Here,  then,  end  the  Crimean  Sonnets  of  the  im 
mortal  hero  of  Polish  poetry,  Adam  Mickiezvicz 
as  translated  by  Edna  Worthley  Underwood  and 
published  by  Paul  Elder  and  Company  at  their 
Tomoye  Press,  in  the  city  of  San  Erancisco,  under 
the  direction  of  Ricardo  J.  Orozco,  their  printer 
during  the  month  of  August,  nineteen  seventeen 


THE  LIBRARY 

TNTVT^'^Y  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  /..NGET/T.S 


MAY  2 1  1958 

APR  2  B  '981 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


-i~". 


new  *» 

m  l  2  1966 


MM  * 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


fEB'<Jtiw'4 


JUN 1 3  1987 
MAR36ST?* 


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N0V27  1979 
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MAY  2  9  1985 


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JON  2  7  1990 


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I 

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